


Let Me Chase Away the Darkness

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe), natalieashe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Murder, M/M, Sex, Smoking, Suggestion Of Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/natalieashe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is forced to take a case that stirs up unhappy memories, but Sherlock is there to assist</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Victim

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was intended to be a one-shot, but at around 8K words it got a bit hefty to post as one chapter, therefore it is hopefully not too awkwardly broken into four. I'll be posting all four parts over the weekend as long as real life doesn't interfere! Rated for sex. Please review.

DI Lestrade pulled his overcoat more tightly around his chest against the biting wind that whipped across the waste ground stirring up flurries of powdery snow. It barely covered the ground, catching in the ruts or between the sparse brown tufts of scrubby grass, but when the wind caught it, it swept across the frost-hardened expanse, dancing like millions of tiny polystyrene beads. In another world, in different circumstances, he may have found it pretty, but this was London in February, and he was trying to summon the strength to walk the hundred yards to the white SOCO tent that concealed the latest victim. He was weary of the job and his life. Fifty, divorced and living alone in a shabby flat. Career had reached as far as his age, fitness and enthusiasm could take him. No romance to speak of, and even his casual shags were, well...  _Complicated_ ! God his future looked bleak but at least he had one, unlike the victim.

He pushed himself away from the side of the car as a black cab pulled up behind him, and took one last drag of his cigarette, grinding out the butt under the heel of his shoe. The rest of the pack was tossed onto the front passenger seat before he closed his driver's door, and steeling himself he began the dreaded walk. The passenger from the cab fell into step beside him, hands thrust into the deep pockets of his ridiculous swirling coat, scarf swathed around his neck.

"Is it her?" Sherlock asked in a puff of visible breath. They were into minus temperatures already, predicted to fall to minus eight overnight. Unusual for the inner city to get so cold; all that pollution was a great insulator.

"I think so.  _Hope_  so or..."

Or the girl they were looking for was still missing and they were dealing with another body. It physically hurt in his gut to contemplate that possibility; two dead, one missing. If this was a fourth... Well it didn't bear thinking about.

Lestrade lived far too much for his work; every case had signature energy, an almost predictable battle plan even with the wide variety of twists and turns that presented themselves. Bank robberies, major drugs rings, high value fraud, even violent death. Each one spoke to him in a different way and raised a buzz of excitement, not for the crime itself but for the determination to solve the puzzle and bring the perpetrator to justice. He and Sherlock were alike in that regard, but in one type of case -  _this_  type - he found himself lacking the necessary detachment where Sherlock could keep going as impervious and unaffected as ever.

Sally Donovan stood at the entrance to the tent speaking quietly to one of the SOCOs. She bared her teeth in a bitter smile as the pair walked up. "Boyfriend not with you?" she asked snidely.

Lestrade froze. "This isn't the time or place Sally, leave it." He snapped, but Sherlock just regarded her with a cool gaze and didn't dignify it with a response. These cases were different; you let things slide knowing they were a self-preservation mechanism for many. A way to pretend it was 'situation normal'.

Realizing she wasn't going to get a rise out of the consulting detective she muttered "You can go in. They're just waiting for His Highness here to pronounce, then they can move the body. Ninety-nine percent certain it's Isobel Tanner. Family will ID."

'The body' lay on the freezing ground dressed only in a thin cotton t-shirt and underwear. Her eyes were closed and she looked like she was asleep. Greg had the bizarre notion she would be cold and he wondered if he should fetch a blanket from the ambulance. Stupid. She was beyond that now but he had the urge to gather the small girl up into his arms and hold her against him to share his warmth, as if that would restore her to life so he could return her safely to her family. He took an involuntary step backwards, blinking hard to clear his vision.

"Sherlock-?" He spoke to the detective's back as he crouched by the child, gathering and cataloging every detail of her appearance and the state of her body. "Was she-?"

"There's bruising on her inner thighs, but her underwear is in place. I don't wish to disturb her clothing and risk compromising evidence, but from what I have observed I don't think there was sexual interference. The post mortem will confirm that hopefully. Cause of death most likely asphyxiation again."

Lestrade sagged with visible relief. The child was just as dead, and that was devastating enough, but at least he wouldn't have to tell her parents she'd been sexually assaulted too. It was only a matter of time though, at the rate this sick fuck was escalating.

The first girl had been found five months ago in a similar place on the other side of London, partially dressed but no sign of assault. Her parents hadn't even realized she was missing for hours, each believing the child was with the other. Two months ago another girl disappeared on her way home from school. She was found in an alley not far from a derelict factory, naked apart from her underwear with bruising around her mouth and arms, but again no indication of interference. Now Isobel lured away from her friends by a man in a black car and dumped here. He prayed she was untouched, but the bruising on her legs was a bad sign. Statistics didn't support a serial killer of children without a sexual motive.

He felt the bile rising and swallowed reflexively, forcing himself to look properly at the child and record his own observations in detail for the records. He was determined to miss nothing that could identify and convict this monster before another little girl was lost. Sherlock pointed out the tell-tale mark on the child's belly; the same imprint of some kind of metal belt buckle that had appeared on the other two bodies too. There was bruising around the girls mouth, and Sherlock noticed one of her top front teeth had loosened and was trapped between her gum and upper lip. One of the SOCOs carefully photographed and collected it.

They worked in silence for ten more minutes, Lestrade making his own notes and writing down anything the detective uttered. The tent gave some protection from the chill but it was by no means warm and soon his fingertips were numb. Finally Sherlock straightened.

"Done?"

"Done," he agreed.

He couldn't wait to leave the tent but there was no way he'd be able to leave what he'd seen behind. The six year old would haunt him, along with the other two, until he was able to formally charge someone for this atrocity. He carried the pressure of being the one tasked to do that in the tension of his shoulders and the pain in his heart. He exited the tent ahead of Sherlock, halting at the light touch on his shoulder. He fancied he could feel the warmth of his hand resting there, but that was impossible through at least four layers of clothing between them, but god he needed that human touch. He closed his eyes momentarily, just feeling the barely-there pressure on the crest of his shoulder.

"What do you need?" Sherlock rumbled softly behind him, stepping close so his left hip barely brushed against Lestrade's. His hand still lay on his shoulder reassuringly  _there_.

"You. Just ten minutes with you, somewhere quiet away from all of this to collect my thoughts."

"Cigarettes?"

"In the car."

Without another word Sherlock strode off into the darkness towards Lestrade's car, sliding into the passenger seat and pulling the door closed. Lestrade found Donovan and indicated she should get things moving to recover the body, and then he followed more slowly. He flicked the courtesy light off immediately leaving them in deep shadow. It helped not to see Sherlock at times like this and no one outside should be able to see them. He watched the detective play with his unlit cigarette twirling it end to end against the back of his other hand. He wouldn't light it; this was an exercise in resistance and control for Sherlock, something Lestrade had witnessed before when the detective was warring with himself. He would pour all that internal conflict into a simple match between willpower and nicotine-craving to avoid confronting the real issue that stressed him.

"How do you avoid it?" Lestrade asked thickly, finally allowing his professional face to drop and some of the emotion to bleed into his voice. He sagged over the steering wheel, dropping his forehead to his hands.

"I don't. I'm just better able to compartmentalize my reactions to stress. Becoming emotional would reduce my capacity to reason, therefore hindering the investigation. It would not serve Isobel or the other children for me to allow my feelings to incapacitate my mental abilities."

"So you're saying I'm a hindrance now?"

"No I'm not. Come here." Sherlock pulled gently on Lestrade's arm until he could awkwardly wrap his arm around the older man's shoulders. Greg let himself be tugged into the embrace and sighed raggedly, fighting against a dry sob that threatened to escape. It should have been weird. It wasn't. "You and me, we're the best team. Whatever you need from me, I'm here."

Lestrade nodded briefly. "Can you come home with me?" He regretted it the moment he asked, feeling Sherlock stiffen beside him. "I- I'm not suggesting- or asking for anything. I just-"

"Yes." Sherlock tightened his arms fractionally, letting Lestrade feel the hug before releasing him and withdrawing completely. Their eyes met in the dark. "If you need something now-? Release might help you focus. Chase the darkness back for a while." He slid his hand under Lestrade's bulky coat to rest high on his muscular thigh and this time the DI could feel the heat of the other's skin through the fabric of his trousers. Sherlock stroked his thumb along the creases well to the left of his groin, not teasing exactly, but testing the water, seeking permission to slide a couple of inches over and help Lestrade forget.

"Not here, too public. Donovan will be over any minute to find out what we're doing." Lestrade's voice cracked, hardly able to believe he was contemplating what Sherlock was suggesting at a fucking crime scene for god's sake, but he wanted it, and to his shame he felt his cock start to grow heavy. It felt disrespectful but his body didn't appear to give a damn about that when the motion of the detective's thumb was doing exactly what Sherlock intended it to do – drag his thoughts away from the harrowing death of another innocent to give him a moment of freedom. He choked a half-sob. "Stop! I have to get back to work and deal with this."

"I know; I'm sorry." Sherlock withdrew his hand and retrieved the cigarette he'd tossed onto the dashboard prior to their hug. "Let's smoke."

"You don't need it Sherlock. You're doing so well."

The courtesy light came on as Sherlock pushed the door open, illuminating his face and Lestrade saw the tightness around his eyes, the straight set of his mouth that evidenced the strain the detective felt too. He lit the cigarette, his first in over six weeks, and reached for the policeman's hand squeezing it hard. "We both need it. Text if you want me."


	2. Taking Care of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade needs some TLC and Sherlock is the one required

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who doesn't know what Chicken Ding is, it's any random chicken based microwave ready-meal - Ding from the timer on the oven, yes?

It was over six hours later when Lestrade returned to his crappy flat, aching and tired, feeling every year of his age and a whole lot more. In those hours he'd overseen the processing of the site as far as they could in the dark, and organized a team to cordon off the area to preserve any other evidence that wouldn't become apparent until they could do a fingertip sweep in daylight. He didn't hold out much hope based on the previous two crime scenes. He'd also visited the family personally with the victim liaison officer, and stayed a while, politely drinking tea the female officer made, while the parents wept and let their tea grow cold. Finally he'd spent a couple of hours in the incident room submitting his notes to the major enquiry system for the team to process and cross-match in the morning. Nothing to eat, not even a decent cup of coffee in over ten hours. Half an hour previously he'd sat in his car, his eyes burning with tiredness and tears that kept threatening to spill, and sent a simple text.  _I need you._

He hoped to find Sherlock leaning by his front door waiting for him but the landing was deserted. There were muffled raised voices coming from the flat opposite again and not for the first time he wished he could get himself out of there to somewhere better, preferably without any fucking neighbors at all. Not much chance of that in London though. Even the down and outs under the bridges lived on top of each other. He slammed his door shut hoping the sudden bang would be a subtle hint for them to keep the noise down. Typical passive aggressive behaviour, but satisfying all the same.

He didn't bother turning on the light intending to forego food and collapse into bed, but a tall thin shadow detached itself from the wall and wrapped around him. He wallowed in his unique scent; spicy notes from his aftershave, barely-there sweetness of his skin and bitter tang of smoke. His clothes would smell of Sherlock at the end of the hug. "I didn't think you'd come," he said softly, afraid to open his eyes just in case he'd fallen asleep and this was a vivid dream.

"I was already here," Sherlock murmured, holding his friend securely in the circle of his arms. Lestrade wrapped his arms around the younger man's waist and dropped his forehead to rest on Sherlock's shoulder mirroring him perfectly even though he couldn't see him clearly in the darkness. They stood there, each offering silent support to the other, for long minutes. "You need to eat," Sherlock said eventually. "I cooked Chicken Ding."

"That's usually my line to you, though I generally offer something more appetizing," Lestrade chuckled against the smooth cotton of the detective's shirt. Everything was shades of grey in the gloom but Lestrade was certain he'd been wearing the dark purple at the crime scene earlier. No reason to think he would have been home to change.

Sherlock stepped away enough that he could unbutton Lestrade's heavy overcoat, seeking the buttons by touch alone, and slid it from his shoulders. He hung it on the hook by the door then helped him remove his jacket. Lestrade stood there like a helpless child allowing the other man to do these small acts of care for him with a tenderness few others had ever witnessed. This case may be tearing him apart in a way that no other ever had but it had brought him Sherlock like this, something he had never imagined could ever happen, and for that alone in the midst of the horror, he was grateful.

Sherlock left him standing alone in the darkness, crossing to the other side of the room and switching on the desk lamp. The harsh yellow of the utilitarian angle-poise was an assault to the senses after the velvet darkness until the detective aimed the bulb at the wall reducing it to a more restful glow. He returned to his friend and led him to the leather sofa, pushing him to sit and then removing his shoes and damp socks. "Your shoes are leaking."

"They're comfortable," he replied, like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to keep faulty clothing that let the elements in. Sherlock hummed his disapproval and resolved to ensure Lestrade invested in new footwear in the near future.

He fetched the microwave meal; plastic tub still balanced on the plate, and handed it over with a bottle of lager, no glass. Catering Sherlock-style was basic at best, and the food was lukewarm having stood for at least fifteen minutes on the kitchen counter, but the plastic-tasting chicken in its watery sauce with rubbery rice was a few mouthfuls of Heaven. Sherlock curled up beside him, wriggling his bare toes under his companion's thigh. "It makes me happy when you're barefoot."

"Why?" Sherlock's brow crinkled at Lestrade's unusual observation. The DI's large hand settled over the top of his right foot just below the flex of his ankle.

"It means you're not planning on leaving any time soon."

"I hadn't planned on leaving at all. Not tonight anyway. Unless...?"

"Stay!" It came out more desperate than he intended, a short yelp tinged with the fear of being left alone with the ghosts of three little girls. Metaphorically speaking. No less disturbing. "Please stay." Sherlock nodded and opened his arms, inviting the DI to curl up against him. They stretched out along the sofa, face to face, luxuriating in the warm solidity of another body close by.

The muted light was just sufficient to bring some colour to the scene, altering it subtly from the true hues of day. Sherlock's curls like ebony, Lestrade's crop like pewter. Sherlock's eyes sea-green, Lestrade's almost black. They gazed at each other unspeaking for a long time, bodies meeting only where their arms lay across the other and bent knees touched. Lestrade followed Sherlock's breathing pattern and Sherlock, recognizing the calming technique he'd shared with the DI after the first panic attack, began to meter his breaths - in for two, hold for eight, out for four - ensuring the air reached deep into his lungs using his diaphragm. "You remembered. Good. Feeling calmer?"

"It's helping. You here, like this- well my senses are so full of you there's less room for the bad stuff."

"Why this case? Of the hundreds you've seen over the years, what is it about this one that's triggered your response? You must have seen worse?"

Worse? Undoubtedly. Blood and gore, decomposition, violent death for victims of all ages from all kinds of weapons. Serial killers, yep, he'd seen that too - prostitutes, gay men, blondes, whatever the hell else was an attraction to the warped bastards, but never a serial that went after little kids. He knew it happened, plenty of high profile cases he could quote, it just hadn't touched his career ever and the first time it did, he was at the lowest possible point in his life and he was expected to be in charge. The responsibility was crippling him and he told Sherlock so in panicked ragged breaths.

The detective sighed with annoyance, pulling Lestrade a fraction closer as his breathing threatened to spiral out of control into hyperventilation. "Breathe," he commanded, tipping Lestrade's chin up with one finger until he could meet his eyes again. "We need to get this under control for us to function properly as a team. We are the best chance for the families of these girls. Repeat that now."

"Best chance for those little girls-"

That was it, the final straw, the fucking bullet that shot the lock off the floodgates and let the torrent spew forth. He didn't know he was capable of hiding so much grief deep inside himself. When it tore itself free he felt he was being physically ripped apart and the keening cries that issued from his throat shocked him almost as much as the bewildered man lying by his side.

Sherlock's response was to tighten his arms pulling the silver haired man hard against his chest, throwing his leg over Lestrade's and using his entire body to hold the shuddering man in a embrace of warm limbs. He rubbed soothing circles over Lestrade's lower back with one hand and curled the other under his neck so he could gently cradle his head. "Shush now!" He tugged the policeman's shirt free of his trousers and slid his hand beneath, seeking to put skin to skin to intensify their connection. He coordinated each circle with a whispered hush or gentle reminder to breathe. "I'm here. Right here. Not going anywhere."

When the older man eventually subsided into hiccupping quiet sobs Sherlock decided it was time to ask the question that had been niggling at him for the last five months. It frustrated him that he'd failed to make any kind of reasonable deduction that made sense, but he'd tried to learn the lessons of the past and respected Lestrade's privacy. He was sure he wouldn't phrase it well, but as he currently had his friend almost pinned to the sofa to comfort him, he was in minimal danger from flailing limbs. "Who was she and what was your role in her death?"

Lestrade shifted in his arms but made no attempt to pull away. Taking it as a good sign Sherlock continued his soothing touches and waited patiently for an answer, noting the measured pattern of breathing that Lestrade re-established. Finally he said in a low voice, "Seven years ago I was involved in a high speed chase. We were in pursuit of a high profile drug dealer that had been tipped off and we headed deeper into the estate after him. I flew down a residential street and suddenly there was this little kid standing there in front of the car, and then she was in the air and crashing down onto the windscreen and then the roof… No one blamed me, but I still blame myself." There wasn't anything to be said to make it less painful so Sherlock remained silent. "The day we found the first body was the anniversary of her death. Normally I take annual leave, take a couple of days off and just hurt in private, but this year we got the info about the body and I was called in, and now every time I see those girls - the bodies, the photos - I see what she might have grown into and I feel- A part of me is glad she isn't in the world to be hurt by that sick fucker. I don't want justice, I want him dead, and fuck the law I'm supposed to uphold."

Sherlock nodded. "We could do that, you and I. I would do that for you." The statement was coolly spoken, emotionless and terrifying in its simplicity. For a moment Lestrade actually forgot to breathe at all, staring at his friend in abject horror. He knew with certainty that if he said the word the murderer's days would be numbered the moment he was identified. Not for the first time he realized how much the consulting detective could scare him. "Tell me what you need Lestrade. I can chase the dark away permanently, just ask."

He stared into the beautiful stormy eyes of the sociopath currently wrapped tightly around his body and he wanted that fantasy. He wanted the bastard dead and he wanted Sherlock to kill for him and he wanted him to take all the pain away. Just for tonight.


	3. Taking You Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of distress their relationship takes a turn

With a shaking hand he began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, tugging it free of his suit trousers and spreading the fabric to expose the pale skin beneath. The fine cotton slipped off his shoulders and down his back, but the cuffs were still buttoned, trapping the detective's arms so he could no longer embrace him. Sherlock attempted to wriggle out of it believing that was Lestrade's goal, but a sharp "no!" stopped him and his curiosity allowed it.

One strong tanned hand wrapped around the detective's throat, squeezing firmly and Lestrade grimaced when Sherlock's eyes widened. He pushed his face close to the other man's and demanded in a low, desperate tone, "I need you to tell me it's already done. Tell me that monster won't hurt anyone ever again. Tell me you made him kneel and beg for his life and then you put one bullet in his groin and another in the center if his forehead. Tell me the gun felt good in your hand and tell me you did it  _all_  for me."

Sherlock swallowed against the press of his friend's broad fingers against his Adam's apple. The switch was unexpected and thrilling, but he just wasn't sure how far Lestrade was prepared to take it and that- Well fuck didn't  _that_  make him look at Lestrade in a completely different light? Up till now this extra aspect of their friendship had been about providing comfort through a difficult time - Lestrade clearly disturbed by the case, Sherlock unsettled by the change in his friend - but this just got interesting.

He knew Lestrade would never be so casual about taking a life, no matter how hurt and angry he was, but the intensity of the DI's eyes and the cruel curve of his normally smiling mouth gave his demands an erotic appeal that spoke to something dark inside the consulting detective. He moved against the shirt, testing its limits. No way it could be considered a restraint, it was far too loose and he could shrug out of it without much trouble at all, but Lestrade had told him 'no'. Symbolic restraint then; trusted to do as he was bid. He could do that. He let a little heat bleed into his eyes as he held his friend's gaze. "It's done!" he said, voice like rich chili-chocolate, curving his own lips into a wicked smile that made Lestrade utter a quiet "Oh!" as Sherlock's voice vibrated against his fingers and the penny dropped. This particular game was on, it seemed.

They were still laying mostly face to face, legs tangled at the knees. Lestrade had put space between their upper bodies so he could remove Sherlock's shirt and now he looked down the length of his torso, raking his eyes over all that pale taut muscle and shadowy bone structure. He wanted to touch, explore and taste every square inch, but side-by-side felt too equal. "On your back," he commanded, and Sherlock obligingly shuffled until he lay flat on the sofa. It had the effect of rucking the shirt tighter underneath him, pinning his arms far more effectively. Still not impossible to escape with very little effort, but he made a small sound of appreciation that brought a flush to the DI's cheeks. Lestrade had to move so he was partially lying on top of him and he pushed his right thigh possessively between Sherlock's legs, putting his half-hard cock against the detective's thigh and his mouth above his collar bone.

"Tell me how you did it," he growled against Sherlock's neck, tonguing along the dip of his clavicle from his breast bone outwards and back again to suck hard at the base of the detective's throat. Sherlock groaned at the sting of assault on his tender skin that was distracting him from imagining what he would do to the murderer. Normally he could be single-minded in his thought processes even during sex, performing effectively while his brain was elsewhere, but something about this experience had his thoughts scattered like sunlight through a crystal.

"I found him in a pub, watched him for a while and followed him when he left…"

Lestrade kissed down his breastbone, across his right pectoral to the dark pink nub of his nipple. He circled it with the tip of his tongue, flicking it across the peak until it stood proud and hard, and then he set his teeth to it, worrying at the sensitive bud. When Sherlock stopped speaking he nipped hard, eliciting a yelp that sent a bolt of lust straight to the detective's swelling cock. "Tell me!"

"He didn't realize I was there at first," Sherlock sounded a little breathless as Lestrade continued to lavish attention on his hyper-sensitive right nipple. "And by the time he did, it was too late." The DI traced the lower edge of the detective's pectorals with a hot, wet lick, sweeping across to lave over his left nipple, blowing across it until it peaked as hard as its twin. His hands and mouth roved over the detective's hard lean torso, mapping the rise and fall of the musculature of the surprising six-pack, and the flat of his belly, delving into his navel with wet laps of his tongue. Sherlock wanted to touch him but the shirt was a gentle reminder that this wasn't his fantasy to control.

"I pressed the muzzle of the pistol against his temple and told him why I was there, and what I was going to do to him. I wanted him to feel the terror of his victims. I wanted him to know what he'd done."

Lestrade was breathing heavily; registering what Sherlock was saying and letting the rage flow through his body. He was present enough to recognize the anger wasn't at the man who lay beneath him, but deep enough in the fantasy to feel the rush of adrenaline Sherlock's words triggered. Yes, he wanted the bastard to feel fear and hopelessness. Sherlock would do this for him, would destroy this monster  _for him_.

"I- I pushed him to the ground. He was begging me not to do it. He promised there would be no others; he would go far away from London, but I knew he was lying."

Nimble fingers released the button on Sherlock's trousers and drew down the zip, tugging the garment down over his thighs to his knees, over his shins and finally off his feet. The detective's pants swiftly followed leaving him naked and exposed below the waist. His cock lay thick and heavy but not yet fully hard against his lower belly, nestled in a shock of black curly hair.

Lestrade knelt on the floor, Sherlock's left ankle resting on his shoulder. He curled his fingers around the other man's calf, massaging in small circles and following the trail of his fingers from ankle to knee with his mouth. When he reached the back of Sherlock's knee he lingered, stroking his tongue over the sensitive nook making Sherlock groan and squirm on the sofa. Sherlock imagined touching his friend, stroking his slim fingers over his broad shoulders and running them through Lestrade's short hair, but he'd accepted the limitation of the shirt. To break that now would be a breach of trust, and he would never do that without permission.

He faltered in his story when the DI began kissing, sucking and licking up his inner thigh. He wanted to concentrate on the hot wet sensation of Lestrade's mouth moving ever closer to his stiffening cock, and abandon any attempt at creating a fictional assassination but the silver-haired man paused to demand "continue!" He pushed Sherlock's legs wider and set his mouth a couple of inches below the crease of his thigh sucking gently at first. Every exhalation sent warm breath over his saliva dampened skin and it felt amazing.

"The first shot-" he swallowed hard as Lestrade sucked a little harder creating a beautiful purple bruise to match his shirt, being careful to keep it the pleasure side of painful. "The first shot obliterated his genitalia. He looked surprised for a moment before the agony took over and I laughed. The second took him between the eyes. I feel no remorse."

Lestrade had moved up to his balls, rolling the soft wrinkled skin with his lips and tongue while his hands slid up and down the creases of his spread thighs. The tips of his fingers caressed up to the sharp hip bones, then traced down the fold where his legs met his body, past his balls and under his buttocks. "Good!" He whispered against the sensitive skin.

"I did it for you, my gift to you." His cock hadn't even been touched yet but it was hard and leaking onto his lower belly with the anticipation of what might be to come. If anything was a gift, this was fucking  _it_. Lying here, naked and vulnerable and so fucking turned on by a man who hadn't even removed his tie yet. Christ, he hadn't given Lestrade enough credit by assuming he'd always want to bottom. If he could give as well as he teased then  _fuck_  this might be worth pursuing on a regular basis.

Lestrade eased Sherlock's leg off his shoulder gently lowering his foot to the floor. "God you are fucking beautiful." His position didn't look comfortable, lying at an angle with his upper body on the sofa, arms trapped by his sides, and his arse half off the cushion. The foot now resting on the floor stabilized him, the other one was bent with foot resting on the sofa. He could fuck him like that, he had access to everything he wanted, but it would be uncomfortable for both of them. He weighed up his options - stick with it, stay here but get him in a more sustainable position or take him to bed, breaking the sexual tension. No way was he risking  _that_ , when it was going so well.

"Sit up, both feet on the floor. Arse on the edge." Sherlock used all that delicious muscle tone in his abdomen to pull himself up without using his arms at all; it was simply breathtaking! The muscles in his legs worked to pull him to the edge of the cushion, positioning himself as directed, but he was careful not to disentangle his arms from the shirt, having not been instructed to do so. The new position had loosened it considerably which was disappointing and the sofa wasn't really deep enough to accommodate his long body when reclined like this but Lestrade could take some of his weight when it came down to it. It would be hell on his knees but some things were just so damned worth the pain.

Sherlock's desire was plain on his face and in every nerve of his body as he lay back and watched Lestrade kneel between his spread legs. He could see the stunning deep purple bruise on the ivory skin of his inner thigh from this angle and Lestrade gave a smug smile, pleased when Sherlock growled in response to his finger tip caress. He was growing desperate for that incredible mouth to mark other parts of his body and he let it show. The next time the roles reversed Sherlock might make him pay for that smile by keeping him on edge until he begged for release.  _Next time?_  Oh yes, there would be a next time, Sherlock would make sure of it now he knew Lestrade would happily switch.

Lestrade slid his hands from Sherlock's knees, up his thighs and across his abdomen, carefully avoiding his straining cock. "Just fucking touch me.  _Please_?" Sherlock begged after a minute or two, but the DI removed his hands completely and chuckled at the detective's sound of frustration. Slowly he unfastened his tie, sliding it free and turning it over in his hands with a thoughtful expression, but then he discarded it on the floor with a regretful "maybe another time". He took his time unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his luscious tanned skin an inch at a time until Sherlock found his mouth literally watering with the yearning to taste him. A handful of small packets dropped onto Sherlock's stomach, a couple toppling off onto the carpet – lube and condoms. Since when had he started carrying  _those_  around? Not that Sherlock was complaining, because he hadn't thought to bring either. They'd already established they were both clean so the condom wasn't strictly necessary but it made clean up easier. Lestrade removed the rest of his clothing quickly, keen to get on with things now Sherlock understood the way it was going to go. The detective had clearly enjoyed topping him in their previous encounters and Lestrade hadn't been sure he would be disposed to bottom at all, but it seemed he was only too willing to accept either role, and that was hot.

The DI set his hands on the back of the sofa either side of the detective's head and leaned in to kiss his sulky pouting lips. The new position pressed their lower bodies together and Sherlock gave a small cry when he felt the other man's erection pressed alongside his own. Lestrade parted his mouth with one sweet swipe of his tongue along the seam of Sherlock's lips and then they were kissing frantically, all tongues and teeth. When they broke apart Lestrade was grinning and Sherlock's eyes were a little wild. "You've never kissed me like that before," he gasped shakily.

"We've never done anything quite like  _this_  before."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, his answering grin suddenly as wide as Lestrade's own. The other man settled between his thighs once more, retrieving a packet of lube from the floor and coating his fingers generously. "Up!" He said tapping Sherlock's leg and he obliged bending one knee and placing his foot on the edge of the sofa. Lestrade finally curled his fingers around Sherlock's cock, and licked agonizingly slowly from base to tip before taking the head into his mouth and sucking greedily. The detective's head hit the back of the sofa with a lustful groan when his fingers slid over his perineum and down to his ring, circling it with slick fingers. One fingertip pressed gently inward, while another two caressed the sensitive skin around it waiting for the muscle to relax and take him in further. He loved this part; that first moment of being trusted to do something so intimate gave him a buzz and he could generally determine by his reception if ultimately his lover would want hard and fast or leisurely and slow. Typically, Sherlock wouldn't leave him guessing.

"Oh god yes, hurry up! Open me quickly; I want you to fuck me!" Sherlock was so eager! Normally he only became this enthusiastic if there was a mystery to be solved, but then maybe that was what this was to Sherlock; Lestrade was behaving out of character in their relationship, in so far as things had been up to this point.

"Really? So you don't want me to get you all worked up and desperate, then leave you needy and wanting?"

"Don't you fucking dare!"

Lestrade answered by working a second finger into his arse, and angling them so he could brush across his prostate. The noise Sherlock made was indecent and the sharp jolt of his hips thrust his cock into Lestrade's lubed hand. "Oh I like doing that! You're so responsive!" He repeated it several times more, focusing on the erotic moaning of the detective and adding a third finger when he felt he was ready. The detective bucked enthusiastically with the rhythm of his fingers, moaning filthy endearments that actually had Lestrade blushing and his cock twitching. "Enough, enough! Glorious though it would be to come like this, I want to be inside you." It only took seconds to cover and lube up, and position himself at Sherlock's entrance, one long leg eagerly hooked over Lestrade's shoulder and the other over the sofa arm. "Ready?" He nodded and the other man pushed home in one slow smooth action.

"Oh god," gasped Sherlock, throwing his head back, closing his eyes as the feeling of fullness almost overwhelmed him.

"Nope, just me! Tell me when you're ready."

"Give me a minute to adjust. You're rather more than I anticipated." He said breathily, eyeing the other man pressing forward between the V of his legs.

Lestrade chuckled. "I'm flattered but don't take too long. You're tight in spite of all my prep." He gave an experimental nudge of his hips that made Sherlock whine, then another and another, withdrawing a fraction further each time, but still entering more gently than he wanted to. The angle was perfect to slide over his prostate and every time he did so Sherlock shuddered and made small whimpering noises or uttered profanities that made Lestrade want to abandon slow and careful and bang him hard.

"Oh fuck... Just, buggering fuck...!" He groaned, writhing beneath the DI who had bent to suck hard on his collar bone, trapping the detective's slicked-up cock between their bodies. It slid stiffly between them, a fabulous rigid delight against Lestrade's belly. "Just… yes, now… getting close… touch me, damn you!"

He pushed himself away from Sherlock's chest, altering the angle of his movement again and causing a fresh stream of obscenities to tumble from his friend's full lips. Somehow Sherlock had managed to find another packet of lube and get it open and he still had enough concentration to drizzle it generously over his cock, though a fair amount missed completely and fell onto the pale skin of his stomach. Lestrade braced himself with one hand and grabbed Sherlock's hand with the other, wrapping both their fingers around his eager cock; he let Sherlock guide the pace, fast and frantic, and within a couple of minutes he choked out Lestrade's name as his chest was painted with thick streaks of pearly come and his inner muscles tightened around Lestrade buried balls deep in his arse. "Oh god you're gorgeous," he panted, taking back his hand and gripping Sherlock's leg so he could finally thrust himself, once, twice, to his own release. He could barely breathe through the intensity of it, so much pent up emotion of the last few months released in the power of one orgasm, and to his mortification he found he was sobbing, even as he rode out the last pulses of his ejaculation. Somehow he managed to pull out and remove the condom, tying it off and dropping it into the bin by the bed, but then he found himself hauled into the other man's lap and cradled there like a child while Sherlock made soothing noises to calm him. After several long moments he snuffled "I'm sorry, that was so embarrassing."

"Idiot," said Sherlock fondly, holding him close. "Skin to skin contact is calming. Shut up and try to relax. Your breathing pattern is shocking!" They stayed there for ten minutes before the stickiness of lube and semen drying on their skin became too unpleasant to bear and they started to shiver. "Come on, shower, and then bed." Sherlock guided them both to the bathroom and they squeezed into the shower cubicle together, laughing and cursing as they washed each other and bumped elbows and heads. Crawling into bed together to sleep was a new experience, but Lestrade found he very much wanted the other man close to him all night long. Not known for his ability to relax and let sleep take him, Sherlock was apprehensive, but when the DI curled on his side and pulled his arm around his waist, the detective found they fit together in a comfortable curve of cozy peace.


	4. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes action to solve the case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so coincidence is the cop out of a lazy writer but needs must. The universe may rarely be so lazy, but this weekend I am lol

Sherlock Holmes did not believe in coincidence, though on this occasion he was hard pressed to come up with any reasonable explanation that would place both himself and the portly man in the same place at the same time. It was perplexing, but on consideration, perhaps not the most important question in the circumstances. He'd already been standing in the queue at the coffee stand for ten minutes, scowling at the server, the other customers and John, who was standing across the road flirting with a blonde and had requested - or more precisely, ordered - Sherlock to fetch the coffee. That was John's job, not his! John enjoyed being crushed between miserable people in queues. He enjoyed chatting to random strangers.

Sherlock's natural inclination, like most people, was to move away from muttering oddballs, but whenever he shuffled forward the balding man followed standing far too close for comfort. The detective was about to berate him for his continued invasion of his personal space when the man dropped something at his feet. Both men stooped to retrieve it, Sherlock's slender fingers closing over the item before the pudgy hand could reach it.

"That's mine! Give it back!"

Sherlock was crouched on the floor, head roughly level with the fat man's waist. He unfurled his fingers, about to drop the item into the man's outstretched palm when he realized what it was. A child's bracelet made from rubber bands. Each of the dead girls had been wearing one when they were found and Donovan had explained it was the latest craze for little girls to make them as friendship bracelets for each other. Little girls! So why did this fat bloke have one? It was child sized, although being rubber it would stretch, but it was pink and yellow - not colors he would typically associate with a man like this. Scruffy jacket straining over his beer belly and faded jeans, body odor problem and disgusting halitosis. "I don't think it will fit you." He said mildly, rising to his full height.

"It's a gift!" The man snapped, reaching for it. Sherlock, who was bored of standing waiting for the nasal skinny customer currently being served to decide on caramel latte or skinny cap, spitefully held it aloft out of the man's reach. The fat man danced around him, much to the amusement of the remaining customers. John however wasn't impressed when he marched over a moment later to reprimand him for teasing the poor man and demand he return the bracelet. He huffed but did so, after a fashion, by dropping it in the ground so he had to pick it up. As he did so his jacket rode up high on his waist giving the gathered audience an unpleasant view of his bum crack, where his belt failed to keep his jeans in place. "Urgh!" Muttered Sherlock, but he found himself unable to drag his eyes from the man once he stood tugging his jacket back over his belly and the very distinctive metal belt buckle he wore.

His mind was racing as he fidgeted impatiently beside John in the queue. He wasn't listening to a word the doctor was saying so when he realized John was waiting for an answer, he couldn't recall the question. "Oh for god's sake, why do I bother?" John muttered.

"Why indeed? I'll have a cappuccino with an extra shot and two sugars. No, make that three. I need to talk to Lestrade." He walked a safe distance from the coffee stand and called his friend, discreetly watching the man who kept casting malevolent glances his way. When Lestrade answered he demanded "tell me about the rubber bracelets!"

"What? No hello?" Lestrade sighed, but Sherlock's impatient huff at the end of the line had him typing in a search on the major inquiry system. "Um- all three girls had one. The parents assumed they'd come from friends."

"So none of the girls made them?"

"Don't think so."

"Look into it and let me know," he requested, hanging up. The fat man had grown tired of waiting and set off across the park ambling towards the main road. Sherlock needed to know more about him. He didn't even notice John's annoyed yell when he abandoned him with two steaming cups of coffee.

* * *

Three days later Lestrade was in his office when Donovan dashed in and announced his presence was required at a crime scene. With a sick feeling in his stomach he rattled off a text to Sherlock and drove out via Baker Street towards the football pitches at Hackney Marshes where his colleague DI Dimmock waited with his own team. "Is it another child…?" he asked, swallowing hard against the rising wave of anxiety that threatened to engulf him. Sherlock stood close by his shoulder, face impassive, a steadying hand resting lightly against Lestrade's back. The angle of their bodies prevented anyone else from noticing and the discreet pressure was enough to keep the DI from spiraling into panic. Dimmock shook his head and led them towards the regular white SOCO tent that had been erected at the edge of the site. He pushed inside, holding open the door flap so the other two could follow him inside.

"Dog walker found him this morning. Male, late forties, white. Overweight for a jogger, though he's wearing the gear." He indicated the exercise clothing and trainers that the corpse wore with a wave of his hand. "MP3 player is still present, but no ID, so probably not a mugging. Found this stuffed in his mouth and thought you should see it."

Dimmock thrust a transparent zip-lock evidence bag at them containing a crumpled sheet of paper. Sherlock took it from him, glancing at Lestrade with some concern. The DI was staring wide-eyed at the body on the ground, his hand behind his back groping desperately at thin air as he sought something to hang on to. Sherlock bumped up against him so Lestrade could grip the sleeve of his coat without it seeming odd to any of the officers or SOCOs that buzzed in and out of the tent. Snow still tried to fall outside, but the footfall in and out of the tent had melted whatever had lain within, carefully leaving a clear foot of undisturbed ground around the body. "He's been shot…?" Lestrade attempted to ask in a normal voice, but it wasn't really a question. There was a clear single entry wound in the dead-center of the pudgy man's forehead, and his groin area was a mass of ruined flesh, blood and bone. Lestrade's first instinct was to look, assess, catalogue and document, the policeman in him taking control, but then his mind processed what he was seeing, and his memory recalled the conversation he had with Sherlock in a moment of distress tainted by lust and his stomach lurched.  _Fuck!_  What the hell was this?  _Who_  was it?

Sherlock scanned the document in the bag and handed it back to Dimmock. "It's a confession. He murdered the three girls." His voice was devoid of emotion, but his gaze was focused on Lestrade who looked like he would see his breakfast again at any second. "Got any cigarettes in your car Lestrade?" he asked, and the DI finally managed to drag his stricken gaze from the body to his detective's face with enough presence to nod. Sherlock led the way back to the vehicle and slipped silently into the passenger seat, plucking the pack of cigarettes from the dash and setting one between his luscious lips. He didn't speak until Lestrade slumped into the driver's seat and reached for the pack.

"You ok? I'm here, if you need…"

"I don't need anything from  _you_  Sherlock.  _What the fuck have you done?_ "

"I don't know what you mean. There was a clear confession on that sheet of paper. He's dead, and can't hurt anyone any more. He can't hurt  _you_!"

"You… I mean… Sherlock, he was shot in exactly the same way you described to me! You murdered a suspect in a multiple homicide investigation."

" _You_  directed the fantasy;  _you_  told me what to say! I only repeated what you requested. Whoever did this…? Well why me? Surely it's more likely to be  _you_ …?" Sherlock said imperiously.

"I didn't do this! Why would you think I would? Or could?"

"And yet you think  _I_ would  _and_  could?" Sherlock pressed his lips together in a thin line, angered by his friend's belief he could murder the man in cold blood without good reason. But then there had been good reason… Three six and seven year old reasons that were holding his lover emotionally to ransom over an incident many years passed, and he had meant it when he said he would do anything for him. Even kill. In cold blood. Without remorse.  _Lover?_  When did that happen? When did they cross the line from friends who comforted one another to lovers who meant something to each other?

Sherlock pulled Lestrade awkwardly across the central column separating their seats in the car and kissed him with a desperation he didn't know he possessed, and to his joy the other man reciprocated, pressing his upper body against his chest, even as his belly was practically impaled on the gear stick. They clung to each other in the silence of the car, sheltered from the outside world for a few brief moments. "Whatever happened… I didn't pull the trigger ok?"

Lestrade nodded, prepared to believe the lie and accept the story without question because it was so much easier than persuading his conscience to deal with the real-life repercussions of their sexual encounter. "Ok," he whispered against the other's mouth. "Just tell me one thing. The gun...?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Will be untraceable. I'm certain of it."

"There'll be an investigation. Evidence to be processed. Will it tell us who did this?"

"Unlikely. You can sleep easier now."

Lestrade doubted that somehow, and resolved to be more careful in his choice of words in future. "If we're going to be a team Sherlock,  _together_  as a team, I have to trust that people won't die as a result of me sounding off. Promise me that?"

"I can't make promises for other people, but I promise not to take you literally when you say you want someone dead." There was a loophole somewhere there, Lestrade was sure of it, but he was too tired to think about it when it appeared the case was now closed. Beside him Sherlock fiddled with his phone and a moment later a text message alert sounded loud in the car.

_You're welcome, brother dear - MH_

The End


End file.
